


Hold on to Me

by orphan_account



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Couch Cuddles, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, OT3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-01 13:40:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6522037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone's got demons to deal with. But they're not alone. Can they trust each other enough to escape their private hell?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi hello my writing's probably a little rusty, since it's my first fic in a very long time. Worry not! I planned this sucker out on paper and on my phone before I started writing. It's a habit from school, but it kind of works. I like to know what I'm writing about, so I did a little bit of research into Turkey's regions and other stuff so you can read something decently realistic. I hate making stuff up about things that exist and always do research or base things off personal experience, but there's only so much I can find on the Internet and encounter in real life :) I have no beta so please let me know about any inaccuracies and I'll fix them as soon as possible. Any kind of feedback is welcome!

It was exactly 6 o’clock in the morning when the stern buzz of the small alarm clock called Illya Kuryakin out of his sleep. After two gruelling, consecutive missions, along with practically babysitting two new partners (of all the men in the CIA he just had to work with Solo), he decided an extra 30 minutes of sleep was well deserved. It felt good to be finally off work. He practically collapsed onto the bed last night, and was surprised it had not caved in under the impact of his body. Instead, the plush bed had molded itself comfortably to his body, and he slept like a… What was it? A baby? No, babies were very fussy. A stump? That was closer. But it didn’t sound right. It had something to do with trees, he knew that. A… log? A log. That’s what it was. A stupid log. A loud, exasperated huff escaped his lips. The English language had too many variations of phrases that meant the same thing. He rolled out of his bed, and padded to the bathroom down the hall outside his room.

Instead of a hotel, somebody had the brilliant idea of staying somewhere quiet like an estate in the Marmara region of Turkey. Probably Cowboy. And they found this place. Somehow Waverly had managed to convince the maid of the very rich and very absent owner that he and the new U.N.C.L.E. team were friends of the Mr. Richard Silk who were visiting Turkey when he was regretfully out of town for the moment and that they were to (please) make themselves at home. Oh, and that she had two weeks’ paid leave and was to return before he himself got back. She left without even so much as a blink of an eye.

So now there was a vast mansion at their disposal, along with the vast grounds surrounding the lone house. He had somewhat noticed the trails that cut through the grassy hills and dove into the forest nearby, and planned to explore them on his morning runs. 

Illya flicked the bathroom lights on, illuminating the vast room that was probably the size of his room back home and worth at least five times more than his nearly empty flat. He found his toothbrush sitting in a glass cup tucked away into the corner of the counter. 

As he brushed, foam collected around his lips. It reminded him of a rabid dog, teeth bared and foaming at the mouth. Dangerous, uncontrollable. Something nobody wanted to be around. Just like him… No. He had his team. That had to count for something, right? The KGB agent hated to admit it, but he’d grown somewhat attached to the annoying Cowboy and his Chop Shop Girl. Hell, Waverly was already a better handler than Oleg. He hoped his feelings were at least somewhat mutual. He finally felt like he belonged.

With shoes and socks in hand, he made his way barefoot down the marble staircase. He slid his footwear on and slipped out the door. 

*****

Napoleon Solo was frying bacon when Illya poked his head into the kitchen. His partner's blond hair was dark and damp from his shower, and instead of his usual turtleneck he wore a white t-shirt. That was new. He looked better wearing that instead of those god-awful turtlenecks. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Waverly down the last bit of his tea and set down his newspaper.

“Morning, Kuryakin,” Waverly greeted.

"Peril." Solo nodded.

Illya nodded in response. Ever the talker. Waverly stood.

“Well boys, I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve got to sort out paperwork and clean up after the whole affair in Istanbul. Just some work with officials. Should be a while before I’m back, you know how complicated these people can be.” He winked and left.

He turned to his partner. 

“Gaby is not awake yet?” Illya asked.

“No. I’d say it’s best to let her rest. She’s still pretty new to this whole spy business,” he replied. “Bacon?” He thrust the plate out to Illya, who promptly took one and bit into it.  
“So, Peril, what do you think of this whole U.N.C.L.E. thing? Think Waverly’ll be able to keep us for long?”

“I do not know how long I can tolerate working with you,” Illya replied, a glint in his eye. Solo saw the tiniest smirk in his expression. But it was gone in a millisecond, replaced by a frown. “But how long our handlers can go without their best agents, I am not sure.”

“Well-“ He didn’t finish his sentence. A loud thud from upstairs interrupted him as he spoke. Simultaneously, the two agents looked up, then at each other. Napoleon raised an eyebrow.

“Should we go check it out?”

“Da.”

They dashed up the broad staircase, flinging open doors as they searched the mansion for the source of the noise.

*****

Once they reached Gaby’s room, they realized how much noise they had made. So much for letting her rest. Napoleon tested the handle and carefully peeked inside.

“Oh my God,” he whispered.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW; some violence  
> Alright so this got a lot darker than I expected and a lot longer than I thought it would be. It was going to be longer but I thought there should be a new update sooner. Please don't hesitate to tell me if there are any mistakes. Advice and constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated!

Solo’s eyes roved around the room. Almost inaudibly, he muttered, “What the hell, Teller?”

In one quick motion, he closed the door, hiding the handle behind his back. He did not allow the other agent a chance to see what was behind the door.

“What is it? Solo, I need to see!” Illya whispered harshly. He took a step forward, ready to shove the American out of his way. Solo stood firm, staring down his partner. That stubborn, challenging look from their first meeting returned to his face.

“Hold your horses, Peril.” His tone of voice was carefully measured, a mask of calm that he had mastered over the years. “We need a plan of action. You’ll take care of Miss Teller and I will handle the rest. When you have the time, you can give me a hand. There’s a lot to do.”

The maid was going to have a rough time. Or rather, he, the self-appointed maid, would have a very rough time. But he knew his two teammates had spent more time together in the short amount of time since the team had been formed, and would most likely be more comfortable with each other. The wisest thing for him to do was to step aside and play the housemaid.

The Russian’s frown deepened. He ran all possible scenarios through his head, mentally preparing himself for whatever intruder had come to hurt his Chop Shop Girl. There was a tiny nod of agreement on his part.

Slowly, Solo opened the door, allowing Illya a full view of the room. Illya’s brow furrowed with confusion; there was no one to fight. No one in there at all. He turned to look at the CIA spy.

“There is nobody in there.”

“Take a closer look, my Russian friend, and you’ll see.”

The light from the hallway flooded in to the dim bedroom. The curtains were partially drawn, allowing slits of sunlight to illuminate the room enough for Illya to see that it was littered with broken glass and porcelain. Somehow, Gaby had managed to shatter every single fragile object in the room without anyone noticing. It must have been last night- the three men had gone outside in each other’s company for a smoke and a little whisky, while the mechanic had retired for the night. Along the walls were fairly pronounced dents, and pools of shattered glass beneath them. She must have thrown things everywhere. Lamps had been turned over, along with chairs and any kind of small furnishing in the room the German mechanic could knock over easily. The Russian ventured a few steps further in. He noticed red smears on the wall, little droplets speckling the floor with streaks of crimson painting a trail to the bed. One of the lamps on one of the bed stands had survived the whole ordeal, giving off a faint golden glow that glinted off the nearly empty bottle of vodka that had been knocked over, perched precariously on the ledge. A second bottle, completely empty, lay in the thin puddle of spirits. So she had drunk herself into some sort of frenzy. But where was the little mechanic herself?

*****

Alone.

That’s what she was.

Torn from her home, everything she knew.

What was lost was found, all to be lost again.

Alone.

So terribly lonely.

Her father was gone. Gone for good. The little spark of rekindled hope had died once more, this time, forever. She had failed… Failed him. She was going to rescue him, free him from the clutches of the enemy once and for all. And she failed. Now he was gone for good, never to be found again.

She found a bottle of vodka.

Alone.

Ripped away from home, from familiarity, from one dangerous existence to another. Infatuated with the enemy. What was her life now? Was this some sort of twisted joke? She took a sip. The room temperature liquor burned its way down her throat. Everything she knew was gone. Stripped away like clothes in the throes of passion. Discarded on the floor, useless. Unwanted.

Was this to be her new life? Filled with uncertainty, ending in silenced screams and unrelenting grief? All of her friends she had left behind in East Berlin. Everything had been taken away from her- her friends, her way of life, her car, even her clothes. There was nothing left for her to even hold on to. She was no longer free, as free as being an East Berliner gets. What she wore was no longer under her control, who she kissed was almost never her choice. Was breaking free from her cell in East Berlin really just an escape into slavery? The vodka found its way back into her system, scorching her throat as much as the unshed tears burned her vision.

And she was livid.

“Why me?” she screamed, her voice cracking. “Why? Why was I chosen? Why couldn’t anyone else have gone? _Why me_?”

She picked up a crystal ashtray, throwing it as hard as she could against the wall.

Gabriella Teller was consumed with rage, the bottles of vodka fueling the onslaught of unrestrained fury.

*****

The shards of glass and porcelain bit into her soft skin. They pierced her like millions of tiny needles, stinging like virulent wasps. But she didn’t care about the pain. It numbed her. She lifted her palms for inspection, watching vibrant red flowers of blood bloom. She wiped them off on the wall. Exhausted, the mechanic-turned-spy shuffled over to the bed, heedless of the trail of blood left behind on the expensive hardwood floor. Collapsing onto the bed she screamed and cried into the plush pillows until the sweet embrace of sleep carried her away into the darkness.

*****

“Father,” she cried. Udo Teller held her shoulders, a soft smile on his weary face. “You’ve gotten so old…” Her brown eyes scanned his features, a small part of her shattering with each crease they passed.

“My Gaby, you’ve grown up so much,” he replied. “I’ve missed you so much.”

His hand stroked her cheek. Udo’s eyes were sad, his melancholic smile no longer on his face.

“I’m so sorry I was gone. Gaby, I can never forgive myself. How can you still bear to call me your father? I am a miserable excuse. I missed so much of your life. You must be terribly angry with me, no doubt.”

She _was_ bitter. She resented him for leaving, even though she knew he did it to protect her and her mother. For a few years, she lived alone with her mother, with barely enough food in her stomach to nourish her growing body. Her mother literally worked herself to death trying to feed them. Then she lived with her new foster family, her new father stern yet loving. But every day she held onto the hope that her father would come back, take her home. And every day a little piece of that hope fell off the branch and died. Soon, she accepted that new life. She learned ballet, and about cars. That life was the good life, a new life born from the ashes of the old. All that was left of her father was a small picture that sat on her bedside table. But now, eighteen years after his disappearance, eighteen years after the death of her childhood days, he was back. Finally.

Tears welled in her eyes. She bit her lip to keep it from trembling so much. After all this pain, all this time spent waiting, and shutting down the little girl’s wish to see her Papa again, he was there. Could she really be that angry with her father? She had missed him so terribly...

“Gaby?” His voice was soft, concern visible in his tired old eyes.

“I- I missed you too…” she stuttered out.

*****

The false coupling device was locked into place. She could taste her small triumph. Just a little longer and the boys would arrive. And she would rescue her father from the clutches of the Nazis. Just a little longer and they would both be free, free from private wars that determined the course of a spy’s life, free from this whole affair. Victory was at hand. She could touch it, taste it. But it wasn’t hers. Not yet.

And once more, she was ripped away from her father. Darkness enveloped her surroundings. There was a spotlight on Victoria and Udo, and the guards holding him. A gun was in her hand. A wicked smile crept onto the blonde’s face, her blue eyes piercing through the layers of Gaby’s innermost being.

“Say goodbye to daddy, now,” Victoria drawled. Her voice filled the dark, dripping like poisoned honey.

“Papa, no!” she screamed. She was desperate. Anything to save her Papa, to take him back. In her final attempt to take him back, she lunged, to no avail. The hands that held her captive were too strong. There was an explosion of sound and the body crumpled to the ground. But it was no longer her father who lay in a pool of blood, with fragments of brain and skull on the ground. The blank eyes did not belong to Udo Teller. They belonged to Illya Kuryakin.

“Illya!” she shrieked. “Illya, Illya, Illya! No!”

Suddenly, Solo appeared, almost out of thin air. Everything disappeared except the body on the floor. In the midst of all the terror and grief, the CIA agent was the shining light to guide her away. His brightness illuminated her surroundings, breathing life back into the harsh fluorescent lights of the laboratory.

“Let’s get out of here,” Napoleon said in a low voice.

He took her by the hand, casting a glance at the still body before steeling himself and dragging the mechanic away.

*****

They were nearly free- almost out of the clutches of the Vinciguerras. In a mad dash, they sprinted down the stone corridors of the wretched science lab, footsteps thundering. Soon, they were to be reunited with the British Navy, back to Waverly. They just needed to run a few hundred yards...

Then came the _rat-tat-tat_ of automatic gunfire. Miraculously, the duo was unharmed. It came again, the ricochets more dangerous than the poorly aimed shots themselves. Their sprint was desperate, a final push before they could reach friendlies or die trying. Just another hundred yards around a corner and they were safe. Their pursuers were still pouring in after them, but they were faster, not needing to worry about carrying weapons or anything. Solo’s hand still grasped hers firmly, pulling her along as they ran. Rounding the corner, his grip loosened, relaxing just a tiny bit as their pursuers could not shoot them for the moment.

He froze, nearly crushing her slender hand in his. In front of them stood three armed guards. Immediately, he slammed her against the wall, crushing her body with his.

"Gaby, forgive me..."

They opened fire.


End file.
